


Mistaken for your child

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Arl of Redcliffe, Everybody Lives, Gen, that pesky royal bastard conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 15:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16452659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Alistair sees Redcliffe's windmill and realizes he has to tell his fellow Warden a secret he'd really wish everyone would forget about.  Especially because it could destroy their friendship.  Caitwyn struggles with this revelation, but not for the reason Alistair expected.





	Mistaken for your child

The sails of Redcliffe’s windmill cycled into view, one then the next then the next, and Alistair felt like one of the heavy wooden beams had just struck him on the head.  That had nearly happened once when he’d been a boy, but luckily that had been before his growth spurt and he’d been still small enough to scramble away. He had to tell her.  He didn’t want to tell her, but he should. Should have before now, when she’d asked how he knew Arl Eamon. When he’d said he was a bastard, just add  _ oh by the way, for extra fun on this slog through the wilderness, you’re traveling with a bastard prince. _  But not exactly.  He hadn’t been raised a prince.  Not by a long shot.

 

“Alistair, are you alright?” Wynne asked, and he shook himself out of his own thoughts.

 

“Hm, yes, perfectly alright, just, um.  Have to. Do a thing,” he said, trotting ahead to catch up to Caitwyn and tried to ignore Wynne’s chuckle.  This close into the village, there’d been no need for to scout ahead, and the broken hills to the east had kept the darkspawn at bay for now.  There were easier pickings in the bannorn than this steep land.

 

His fellow Warden heard his approach and her head cocked to better catch the jangle of his armor in her ear, but she didn’t turn around.  Could she identify people by the sound their armor made? No, not the point. Maker, but he’d been stupid. At first he didn’t think to tell her because he was used to not telling anyone, and then, then well.  He wasn’t  _ completely  _ stupid.   _ Bloody nob _ , she’d said.  She’d grown up in Denerim, and Alistair knew how some nobles thought about elves.  Would she have seen him as that? Just another noble, out to take what he could? Or worse, would she think he’d tried to trick her?  He hadn’t been, he’d only—what? The thought wouldn’t finish itself.

 

He really, really hadn’t thought this through.

 

Drawing even with her, she turned her face up to him with a quizzical cast to her features, though not a wary one.  She had finally relaxed around the rest of them, him in particular, and he thought she didn’t guard herself as much as she had when they’d first met.  He had a sinking feeling that was going to change in about half a minute.

 

“Look, can we talk for a moment?”

 

* * *

 

Night fell over the land slowly, and Caitwyn held her position in front of the windmill with the knights.  Her fingers brushed the feathers of her arrows as she kept her eyes tilted away from the light of the torches the humans needed.  Any moment now, any moment as the sun sank at an alarming pace and the stars winked to life. Any moment the undead would come teeming out of the castle to sweep through the village.

 

Her nerves didn’t strum as they had at Ostagar, at the Circle Tower, the anticipation of a fight no longer made her feet itch to run, made her search for a place to hide.  But her blood still pounded in her ears and her mouth was parched. She licked her lips. In front of her the knights stood at the ready, Sten and Alistair rounding out their ranks.

 

Alistair.  A king’s bastard.  

 

The revelation had crashed over her head like a clay pot, Alistair letting it drop without one damned warning.  She exhaled slowly, catching a flicker of movement up on the hill. Her eyes peered into the darkness, but the thoughts she’d pushed down during the day came back to the fore as the silence swelled.  

 

Alistair being a royal bastard explained why Zevran had seemed to be specially focused on him during the ambush.  Loghain would need Alistair dead to secure his hold on power. If this Arl Eamon died, Alistair could be made king no matter what he wanted.  Or his head could end up on a pike.

 

A low susurrus of magic wound through the night as Morrigan prepared a spell from behind Caitwyn’s position, and that brought Caitwyn back to the present.  Yes, that was a skeleton. A skeleton in a helmet, and it should have been a ridiculous sight. Or it would have been if it was still and hung up on a wall.  As it was, the creature clattered down the hill to where the oil barrels had been prepared. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but then bones took a long time to burn.  Maybe they’d just have flaming undead to deal with now. Damn it.

 

Caitwyn breathed in and raised her bow drawing a sight, and the tip of her arrow sparked with a green flare of magical fire.  She let the green light distort her night vision, because it was about to be properly ruined anyway. The men of the line tensed, but held their position.  More skeletons massed up at the top of the hill, and still she waited. 

 

There was only so long she could wait.

 

She’d told him she understood why he hadn’t told her until now because she did.  Secrets of her own slunk and slithered over her tongue, hiding from her voice. Though she still withheld her full story, her sins stained only her own hands.  She’d trusted him with the parts of her that didn’t hurt, at least. But he bore the sins of his father, and that would spill out on to anyone standing near him.  That was how it always was. The powerful left little mistakes in their wake and, when it came time to clean up, those who stood too close got swept away along with them.

 

Not his fault, she reminded herself.  He didn’t ask to be born on the wrong side of the sheets.  Didn’t ask to be a target. It wasn’t right. He was her friend, one of the precious few people she could rely on.  She thought she was his friend, too, but did he see her that way? No, that wasn’t fair. He did. Surely he did.

 

But then why did he keep something this dangerous from her?  

 

Not the time, not the place, and she wrenched her mind back to the present and it’s iminent problems.  There was a critical mass of skeletons in the patch of oil, and a few had slipped on the grease traps she had placed on the edge of the line of barrels.  She fired her arrow and it streaked like a tiny comet in the night, landing among the oil. With a hot  _ whoomph _ of air, the barrels lit and the skeletons  _ screamed,  _ a nightmarish cross between the squeal pigs at the slaughter and the cracking of fired bones.  

 

Clenching her teeth, she pushed everything from her mind but the fight.  The men in armor took the brunt of the assault, keeping just back from the line of greasy fire but not letting any skeletons past them.  Sten held the far left flank nearly by himself, using his height and reach to destroy whole swaths of the undead in a single strike, while Alistair had formed the linchpin of the center, standing shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield with the knights of Redcliffe.

 

Knights who might’ve known him as a child.  Did they know he was the old king’s bastard, too?  What did they think of the man who had come back to them?  Yet she knew this place didn’t hold entirely happy memories for him.   _ Some nobody too lucky to die _ , the words broke back into her mind.  No wonder he’d dreamed of a sister and nieces and nephews in the Fade.  He’d never had a family of his own. Outside, looking in all his life. Alone, all his life.  

 

It was a right bloody mess, this, and she had to sit down and  _ think _ .  But there’d been no time to think once they’d gone into the village and the desperation of the villagers had battered at her mind like the wild knocking of a madman at the door.  Like in Lothering, the desperate and the lost about to be torn apart by the horde. Like in the Circle Tower, the mage children with too wide, too knowing eyes as they waited for their deaths to come.  Like home. Home in freezing winters when landlords threw out those who couldn’t pay and every morning was a tragedy of frozen bodies, and children less lucky than her huddled together and shivered as they starved.

 

“Caitwyn!” Alistair cried out, slamming full body into a skeleton that had been about to blindside her.  It fell apart, bile and gall pooling from the pile of bones. “You alright?”

 

“Yes, look out!” she shouted, and twisted to draw a line on another skeleton that was coming up behind him.  He sidestepped neatly, and she sent an arrow right into an empty eye socket, knocking the head clean off the spine with the force of her shot.  

 

The fight lasted for a few nasty seconds more, but then all was still.  The knights slapped each other heartily on the back, and they all gave her a little bow.  Her! An elf, bowed to by human knights. She had no time to ruminate on the strangeness of that, however, as one of the village militiamen came running up the hill.  Breathless, he could only gesture back down the hill, and Caitwyn saw what had sent him up here.

 

The undead were coming out of the water.

 

They were drawn to life, hungry for it, aching for it, wanting to devour it, and in the Chantry was the bulk of the life left in this village.  Caitwyn held her quiver to her hip and ran. Sten and Alistair quickly outpaced her, once again using their momentum to break apart the incoming wave of skeletons as Morrigan sent a chain of lightning through their ranks.  Overhead arrows streaked out into the night. Leliana, perched on the roof of the Chantry, picked off skeletons one by one before they could make it to the circle of firelight. Wynne stood just in front of the door, the last defense for those inside, her skin taking on a stony cast as she summoned fists of earth to slam into the undead and healed the militiamen by turns.  Zevran slunk just beyond the perimeter of the firelight, a ghost among the skeletons, his knives glinting the moment before he cut cleanly through knee caps, hobbling the enemy before they reached the less well trained villagers.

 

Maethor, however, seemed to be having fun.  Skeletons were made of bones, one of his most beloved objects,and he had only a slight difficulty with letting one bone go before yanking the leg off of another skeleton.

 

Caitwyn lost track of time as her world narrowed to the fight, changing vantage often and staying just out of reach of the grasping bone claws, but others were not so lucky.  Agonized cries rose in the night as the men tired, as they left themselves open for a rusted sword to sink into their sides, or as teeth ripped and tore at exposed necks, man and skeleton going down in a gout of blood.  She had not reached her end yet, and beside her neither had Alistair. Wardens, they could go past the endurance of others, and she used him as cover while they cut a swath through a vicious clump of the creatures.

 

Then the night became a deafening hush, punctuated by the anguished cries of the injured.  Straining her ears, she could hear the bonfire crackling, the water of the lake gently lapping at the shore, and the wind rustling the leaves of the trees.  But there was no clatter of bones or wild, unsettling screams in the night.

 

She turned about quickly, knowing Leliana was safe in her perch, and Wynne and Morrigan had maintained their distance as mages.  Neither were harmed, but Zevran limped in past the makeshift barricades out of the shadow and into the light, his hand held to his side and his dark skin almost greenish even in the orange firelight.  Caitwyn slung her bow of her shoulder and moved to help the assassin.

 

“My thanks, Warden.”  His voice was subdued in the night, and he was unable to mask the grimace that twisted his features.

 

“Let’s get you to Wynne,” she replied by way of acknowledging his thanks.  He was part of this madness now, and had risked himself for it. Had bled for it, and she had lived by the rules of the street once.  The gang was inviolate, no matter how much you might disagree with others. They stuck together, and they helped each other, and that old truth ran deep, deeper than her discomfort around the Crow.  She let his arm drape over her shoulders, and helped him limp the rest of the way to Wynne. Wynne who was already overwhelmed with the dead and the dying. Men sighing and groaning and crying out their last in the night.  Zevran’s wound didn’t seem too bad by comparison. Glancing around, she saw Alistair helping another man to Wynne, but Caitwyn didn’t think that man would survive the bite that had taken a large chunk out of his neck. Alistair’s eyes caught hers, and she saw he knew it, too.  Knew and still helped a dead man.

 

“I can wait, Warden,” Zevran said quietly as he surveyed the damage the undead had wrought.  They had won, survived for the most part. But it had not been without cost. There was always a cost.  

 

Gingerly, she set him down on the Chantry steps, and she went to find another to bring to Wynne.  They were all human men, however, and too heavy for her to aid by herself. Then Alistair was there, hauling the men up easily, as if he hadn’t just been fighting for Maker knew how long in heavy armor.  She unwound a swath of bandages and helped by pressing cloth to wounds and guided the men’s hands to hold in their own life’s blood, their own guts, and in one instance that tested her stomach to its limits, his brains.  A skeleton with a club instead of a sword had struck him, and he had removed his helm only to have half his head come away with it.

 

The night had been long already, and Caitwyn knew it would be longer still.

 

But she and Alistair had fought side by side, they had seen the same death in a man’s eyes and still been moved to help.  He might be a king’s bastard, but he was still the same man she’d come to know since Ostagar. A good man, who preferred to be a little bit weak instead of hardening his heart to the suffering of others.  A man who had tried to help her, though he had barely known her. A man who had become her friend when she hadn’t been looking.

 

That truth had to count for more than blood.

 

* * *

 

Why did it keep coming down to blood, Caitwyn wondered.

 

The world had gone entirely mad.  That was it. Darkspawn, demons, undead, and oh the sacrifice of a mother to save her son by using her own life’s blood to power the magic.  A manic laugh built in her throat, but she strangled it and forced it down into her gut where it joined all the other things she didn’t like to think about.

 

She was so bloody tired, she felt disjointed from the present.  Like the world and her weren’t traveling together in time properly.  Like she was a step behind, which made her want to shake her head to try to clear the muzzy, cottony feel from behind her eyes.  But she didn’t. Instead, she forced herself to consider the choice before her even as it made her stomach clench. 

 

She couldn’t fault Isolde for her intentions.  The woman had brought this horror down on her own house and the people here, and yet it had all been for a mother’s love, a mother’s fear.  Still, there had to be another way. She wanted there to be another way, there had to be another way.

 

_ “I should go with you, Mama!” she cries, but Mama shakes her head.  “Stay put tonight, little shadow. For me.” Caitwyn sees her the next day, a body on the ground, neck at a wrong angle, wrong, wrong, Mama’s gone— _

 

Caitwyn bit the inside of her cheek, joliting herself out of the memory though her heart still raced in her chest.  No matter who was to blame for what, she knew a child shouldn’t lose his mother so young.

 

Jowan insisted there wasn’t, unless the mages of the Tower could be reached in time.  Caitwyn turned to her companions. Zevran shook his head, and opted for the immediate answer.  Leliana only urged her to save the boy in whatever way she could. Alistair was the last to have come through the castle with her, the four of them the easiest to sneak through and the least likely to destroy the castle in the process.  If he thought it was worth the risk, worth the time, then maybe. Maybe wouldn’t have to sacrifice someone to save another. That just this once, no one had to die. That just once a mother and child would not be parted too soon.

 

“I think we can do it.  It could work. We should probably ask Wynne, but based on what I know.  We could try,” he said, and in that moment he saved the life of the woman who had made his childhood harsh and bleak.  Who had gotten him sent away to a life he had never wanted. Who had set in motion the events that had killed her people and might yet kill her husband.

 

They were both beyond tired, and yet here he was finding a way to be kind.  Like usual. Like he had been from the start, no matter who his father had been.

 

* * *

 

Alistair breathed in deep, fighting down a yawn.  He had been able to sleep, a little, after the fight the night before, but it hadn’t been enough.  The corruption that gave Wardens their supernatural endurance was not limitless he was learning. Or without cost, and neither he nor Caitwyn had eaten nearly as much as they should have.  Food was scarce in the village, so they had taken less than they needed.

 

Probably not smart, but it had been right.  

 

That they had both done so was by unspoken agreement.  Really they hadn’t spoken much after his little admission except to talk tactics, but then it had been rather busy in the past day or so.  Then, after they had fought their way through the castle and learned the truth of this sorry mess, Caitwyn had turned  _ him _ , silently asking him to say something that would keep her from having to kill Lady Isolde or her son.  Maybe it meant she still trusted him, still thought what he might say mattered. That they were still friends.

 

He really hoped so, especially after the way he’d carried on after Zevran had joined up.

 

And now the decision had been made and they were going to try to save mother and boy both.  That meant a trip to the Circle, at least this time by ship. Not that he was fond of boats, but it would be better than trekking the whole way there and back again.  Some of the others grumbled about the choice, though Wynne had approved of the course of action, and she said it was very much possible. So that was something. This might not end in blood.  More blood.

 

They were headed down to the docks, and the villagers watched them pass by.  Though Caitwyn appeared not to notice, he was pretty sure she didn’t miss how they murmured reverently in her direction.  She’d taken charge of the village’s defenses and ordering everyone about. Then she’d run herself to the ground helping the wounded after the fight.  They hadn’t missed what she’d done for them, and he was content to let her take the glory. The less they paid attention to him the better. The more likely he was to get out of this whole thing with his rear nowhere near a throne.

 

As they wound through the wooden houses on stilts over the lake, Caitwyn’s steps slowed until she petered to a stop.  He halted next to her and rocked back on his heels. She shifted, settling her weight on her right leg like she did before leaping out of an enemies’ range.  

 

“Something on your mind?” he asked, and then promptly wanted to have not asked that.  Of course there were things on her mind. Too many things, and he’d heaped one of those on her head.  Her head cocked to the side, and her fingers tapped out a little tattoo on her leg.

 

“Been thinking about how not all of us should go to the Circle,” she replied.  That made sense. She was trying to make sure if the situation here went sideways, the villagers would have some measure of defense.  Also, not all of them would fit in one of the small boats. She glanced at him out the corner of her eyes, but hesitated to speak the rest.

 

“Oh,” he said flatly, working it out for himself.  She allowed herself a slight grimace, but didn’t back down.

 

“Of all of us, you’re the one best able to counter magic and demons.  They might need you here if it goes bad. Again.” Alistair wanted to grumble and grouse, but he knew why she was doing this.  It made tactical sense. Leave the Templar-trained fellow in place where he can do the most good. Let the one with all the good will of the mages approach the First Enchanter and plead Connor’s case.  Then he caught up to what she  _ hadn’t _ said.  She hadn’t made it an order.  She was, if not precisely asking, not shutting him out of the final choice either.

 

He had been silent a little too long, and her expression became studiously blank, like she was hiding behind her own face somehow.

 

“No, no, you’re right.  I hate it, but you’re right,” he said quickly.  The effect on Caitwyn was subtle, a return to slightly more relaxed posture rather than holding herself as still as a startled animal.  It had taken weeks to notice the changes in her face and posture, but now that he knew to look for it he managed to pick up on it.

 

“Glad you agree.  I don’t like splitting the group up more than necessary, but it might be something we have to get used to,” she mused as they continued toward the docks.  It was a lovely summer day, the trees decked in vibrant green leaves and the sky an unbelievable blue. It was hard to imagine what had happened last night, the terror and the blood.  Except when his eye caught on a shattered window or bone-claw marks gouged into the side of a house. Or a splatter of blood staining the wooden planks they trod on.

 

“You mean we might have to embark on separate but equally important epic quests and there will be a nail-biting and down to the last moment reunion to defeat the darkspawn?” he rattled off, putting as much silliness into his voice as he could.  The entirely wild scenario drew a smile from her, more than a little quirk of her lips but less than a full smile.

 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” she asked, her lilt speeding up and a cheeky tilt to her head.  

 

“Oh no, it has to be much more epic than this.  Probably with speeches and extolling, and ooh, maybe even a bit of pledging.  Always a nice touch for a story, a bit of pledging.” Now that he’d started, Alistair couldn’t stop.  The words and the stupidity just kept coming, and he thought he could blame it on being knackered. That if she told him he was being an idiot he at least had a handy excuse.  Then her smile grew wider making her eyes crinkle and dimples appear on her cheeks _. _  It changed everything about her face, so habitually blank or stoic, into something so… young.  She was younger than he was, he remembered, barely eighteen Duncan had said before telling Alistair to look after her in the Tower.  Eighteen and all that weight on her slender shoulders. He had to do better to help her. He had to.

 

“Oh I agree, any story worth listening to has pledging in it.  Of course, someone always breaks the pledge,” she countered, waving a finger as though in warning.  They had reached the docks, Wynne, and Zevran, and Maethor her companions of choice for this trip apparently.  No one else was present. Wynne made sense, and Caitwyn did like having the massive Mabari around. It was probably like having a mobile, drooling fur mattress for her.  The assassin, however, gave him pause. Caitwyn seemed to have lost some of her caution around the Crow, and it made his stomach clench a little. Or maybe it was that Caitwyn didn’t want the elf taking matters into his own hands while she was away.  His loyalty was to her personally, not the group. Alistair could tell that much.

 

“Right, for dramatic tension, but then it turns out that the pledge wasn’t broken at all.  It just looked that way,” he said, keeping a grin on his face. This was good, though, the easy back and forth.  He wasn’t used to the idea that he could make a mess of things and at least one person wouldn’t take him to task for it.  But it was nice, and probably what having a real friend was like. “Then it’s a happy ending for all with cake and much rejoicing.”

 

“Ah, this story sounds most delightful.  Do I know it, or is it some Fereldan tale?” Zevran asked, barging in to the conversation like an unwelcome guest.

 

“Nothing specific,” Caitwyn said, waving away the question. “Just a bit of daydreaming.  Well, are ready to be off?”

 

“I believe so,” Wynne said.  The older mage held out her hand, and Alistair helped her into the small boat by reflex.  One of the village fishermen was in the stern, one hand on the rudder and the other on the ropes for the sails.  Though there were also oars for if the wind didn’t cooperate, and Alistair had the deeply amusing image of Zevran rowing.  Maethor leapt into the boat next rocking the small craft and causing the fisherman to grumble. Zevran followed suit with greater grace, speaking softly to Wynne.  Then it was just him and his fellow Warden on the dock.

 

“Just try not to fall in, will you?  Next thing you know, the magic in the lake has turned you into a frog and then I’m doing this Wardening with a frog on my shoulder telling me what to do, and no one would take me seriously then.”  He kept his voice light and teasing, but he couldn’t suppress a shiver of concern that ran down his spine. Two days, one day there, one day back. She’d be alright.

 

He probably should be more worried for the villagers and the people in the castle, but he didn’t like it when she went beyond his ability to sense her.  It was like when a lute when unexpectedly silent, a presence that he had grown used to suddenly just  _ gone _ .  Gone and no way to know how she fared.

 

“You and people turning into frogs.  But don’t worry, wasn't planning on it.”  Her smile turned into a smirk as she boarded the small boat, keeping her feet easily even though she had likely never been on so much as a raft prior to this.  Then she arched one dark eyebrow at him. “Especially because I can’t swim.”

 

The boat lurched away from the dock, and Alistair stood stunned.  Then the sails dropped open with a clatter and caught the wind, shooting forward with surprising speed for what was really a glorified skiff.   Alistair’s heart leapt into his throat. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at her, “What do you mean you can’t bloody swim!?”

 

But she was too far away to hear him or she did and could not reply.  As he watched the boat disappear into the distance he couldn’t help but think that this was her way of getting him back, just a little.

 

He supposed he deserved it.


End file.
